I am a big fan of Mark Kurlansky. His Cod is one of a handful of books I recommend to people keen to learn about the way in which certain foods have helped shape the world we live in. But while The Core of the Onion has its moments and is an enjoyable read, it’s a mark of how high Kurlansky has set the bar that it doesn’t quite hit the mark for me.

For centuries, no writer has dared to tell the truth about caramelising onions

The main problem is its brevity – a mere 240 pages. Given that the author is someone who can write more than 300 riveting pages on New York seen through its relationship with the oyster, it seems strange that a vegetable which is consumed globally and was domesticated at least 7,000 years ago doesn’t merit the same treatment. It leaves one feeling shortchanged, or that the book was rushed.

We certainly get going fast – Kurlansky’s staccato style, with punchy sentences and short paragraphs, reflects his early career as a journalist – and dive straight into what onions are, with a pithy explanation of why they make you cry. Solutions are suggested: chilling them, or scalding them with a little vinegar before chopping, seems to work well. The writing is lyrical, and the mastery of source material impressive. The opening chapter is devoted to botany; the second to the onion’s development in the old world, then the new, before the first section is rounded off with a discussion of varieties and sourcing. It’s pleasant to read – and illustrated with a good selection of black-and-white photographs.

The trouble is it’s not quite enough. Kurlansky explains at the outset that he’s only looking at Allium cepa, the common onion – despite the fact that the genus also includes leeks and garlic. From a British viewpoint this seems curious, given the history of the leek in Wales. The etymology of onions and onion-related dishes is interesting, but Kurlansky scarcely deals with it, leaving me still confused about the difference between scallions (American), shallots, oriental onions, spring onions and where chives fit in. Devoting space to ramps and ramsons is cheering – but explaining that they are the American species of wild garlic would have been helpful.

The onion’s rich, ancient history is gloriously evident in its presence in the eye sockets of the pharaoh Ramses IV, entombed in 1160 BC, prompting theories about its magical powers. Kurlansky’s discussion of the love-hate relationship with the onion common to all cultures and eras is illuminating. The tension between seeing onions as a cure for everything from dysentery to colds but wanting to avoid the reek of bad breath is certainly brought out, as is their curious history as an aphrodisiac (though I remain unconvinced that onion juice and honey would do it for me). 

At this point I should probably admit to an inherited intolerance of onions. While I might occasionally slip up and eat an illicit but lovely pickled silverskin, at times I’ve had to be very careful to avoid them. That means I know how ubiquitous onions and onion-derived products are. I was surprised not to see a chapter on onion powder, onion flavours, onion as a way of imparting umami to industrial products, onion as a cheap filler, onion as fundamental to almost any cuisine you care to mention. The subsequent investigation into manufacturing processes and the modern diet would have been fascinating.

This isn’t the only omission. The brief statement that ‘enslaved children would run through the fields chasing away the birds that ate the onion seeds’ surely cries out for a wider discussion of onions and colonialism, which is touched on in the Spanish American context but not fully contextualised. Better is the chapter on the perfect onion, complete with competitive onion-growing (the record held by a Yorkshire grower who produced one weighing more than 18lb/8kg), Roscoff onion ‘johnnies’ – from where we get the stereotype of the French onion-seller in his striped Breton jersey – and the official onions of four different American states.

For centuries, no writer has dared to tell the truth about caramelising onions

The last two-thirds of the book is devoted to recipes and to a discussion of the best, worst and most surprising ways to go about using onions. There are sections on sauces (soubise rather than onion gravy), creamed onions, fried onions, eggs and onions, puddings and custards and cakes, tarts and pies, pickles and sandwiches. Sadly, onion marmalade doesn’t feature. More annoying is the space devoted to lengthy recipe citations without much incisive discussion. But there are some interesting titbits, including a section on the Gibson martini, and some truly charming passages where Kurlansky describes his own experiences of talking to chefs, ambling the streets of Paris and spending time in the Basque country.

There are mistakes. Coralline pepper is paprika, not pink peppercorns; and boiling in the 17th century often meant poaching. There is also an oversight which I really didn’t expect. There’s this thing in cookery writing – a conspiracy of silence, if you will. Recently, it’s started to break down, but for decades, if not centuries, no writer has dared to tell the truth about caramelising onions. Properly browning and softening onions, especially for soup, takes at least 90 minutes, and you should allow two hours. This, I thought, would be the actual core of Kurlansky’s onion. But he manages an entire section on onion soup, quoting several different recipes, and all he says is cook until brown. It’s a bit indicative of the whole approach. Fun, worth reading, but not quite cutting to the core.